I've not heard the words "wesson oil party" in a long, long time. No rubber sheets, though: mil-spec poly sheeting 20 feet wide and 8 or 10 mils thick - don't want any rips to get Wesson oil all over your nice shag carpet, right?
Her name was Marge. She was the receptionist on the top floor at Exxon Production Research, one of my consulting clients. She would come down to the lobby to escort people up, because the elevator needed a key to go to the executive level. She had short, curly red hair, prototype brick shithouse body, and dresses that left little to the imagination. On one visit, as the elevator ground its way upward, I asked her what she was doing that coming weekend, and she replied that she was going to a Wesson oil party. Having no idea wtf that was, I queried her about it, and got invited to go along. Which I did. Your imagination can fill in the rest, but my clearest memory is hearing her say those dreaded seven words, "I thought it would be even bigger."